All the Usual Symptoms
by scrub456
Summary: Mycroft Holmes needs to escape the affections of his family and the pressures of his job. John Watson's been thrust into celebrity and had his heart broken. They decide to trade places - Mycroft retreats to John's cottage in the country while John heads to the anonymity of busy London - for the Christmas holiday. *no smut, but John is a bit sweary*
1. Whatever it is People Go Away For

***Author's Note***

This isn't really a crossover, I basically just borrowed the concept of the Christmas rom-com "The Holiday" and forced the Sherlock characters into it. You won't have to be familiar with the film at all to read this story (and if you have seen it, you'll notice significant alterations). And this isn't a typical rom-com in that the outcome for some of the characters is going to be friendship (epic best friends more like) than actual romance. But I have used quotes from the movie as the story and chapter titles.

* * *

"Sir, we have a situation," the personal assistant he'd been assigned mouthed silently from the doorway. The tinny beat of popular holiday music mixed with laughter echoed from the conference room down the hall.

Mycroft Holmes glared up at his latest in a string of unqualified and too young - this one was the youngest by far - personal assistants. He was military trained, judging by his posture and the haircut that did him no favors, obviously field tested, and seeking promotion if he'd willingly taken the undesirable task of doing the impossible job of assisting the impossible man. The British Government the others had called him. They were unaware that he was aware of the nomenclature. They were unaware that he was aware of a great many indiscretions.

Travis... Thomas... Tristan... Whatever his name was, had held his position longer than any of the others. Any since, _her..._

"What is that noise, Holmes?" A gruff, demanding voice barked from the computer.

"It's nothing, absolutely nothing Colonel. Please, continue." Narrowing his eyes at Timothy - yes, Timothy - Mycroft motioned for him to close the door and step into his office. His assistant stumbled over his own feet, fumbled but quickly recovered the tablet he carried, and managed to close the door with a soft click.

"A strike within the next three hours will assure the civilian workforce will be clear from the compound, and we can evacuate the adjacent residential area under the cover of night."

"And your operatives are certain our target is inside the facility?" Mycroft glared at Timothy, standing at awkward attention on the other side of his desk, a moment longer, then turned his full attention back to the secure video communication.

"We have eyes on him now. Three of his generals and a dozen foot soldiers are with him."

"Women and children?"

"There are..."

Mycroft frowned at the Colonel's hesitation. He repeated himself with cold fierceness. "Women and children, Colonel?"

"We've counted seventeen so far. Eleven children."

Exhaling deeply, Mycroft's demeanor shifted to something more commanding and terrible. Timothy swallowed hard and shifted reflexively at what he knew was coming. "Do it," Mycroft's tone was even, easily mistaken for calm. "Take as many of the women and children alive as possible, along with one of the generals and two low ranking underlings. The men will talk under threat of torture. If not for themselves, then for the children." He straightened his tie in a practiced, decisive motion. "Kill everyone else."

"Yes, sir." There was a pause, and Timothy knew the Colonel was saluting. Mycroft nodded his head once in response. The transmission cut out abruptly.

With a click of the mouse, Mycroft switched his monitors back to default, one set to observe security footage the world over, and one to a constant news feed that looked suspiciously like Twitter. He took up his pen and focused on the stack of documents in front of him as if he hadn't just ordered the execution of a high profile terrorist cell leader, and his top advisors, in the midst of an attempted government coup. He held out his free hand to Timothy without looking up at him.

"Right," Timothy cleared his throat. "Mr. Holmes, sir, there's a situation." He brought the images back up on his tablet and with trembling hand, passed it off to his superior.

Cocking his head in annoyance, Mycroft took the device. When _wasn't_ there a situation? The end of the year was upon them. In the week between Christmas and the New Year last year he'd managed two cease fires, avoided four international "incidents," bailed out a failing economy, and staged a well timed military coup. Nothing, not even an unexpected turn to peace on earth and goodwill to all men, could phase him.

"Yes, you mentio-" The corner of Mycroft's right eye twitched involuntarily, and continued to do so as he crushed several pages of the document he'd been signing in his white knuckled fist. "Where did this come from?" His voice was a low, threatening rumble through clenched teeth.

"Ah... Uhm..." Timothy took a full step back.

"Speak! Now," Mycroft roared.

"Sir, it's a multimedia message sent to your personal mobile from, ha... From your m-mummy."

Tossing the pen and crumpled pages away, Mycroft pounded his fist on the desk and stood. He towered over Timothy and snarled down at him. "My mother sent this."

"Yes, sir." Having recovered some of his decorum, Timothy did his best to stand, shoulders squared, eyes fixed and unwavering on his boss.

"Explain to me what I am looking at."

"It appears, sir, that the personalized gold banded Wedgewood bone China you commissioned for your parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary in two months arrived early, and your mum-" Timothy stuttered and took a halting breath. "Your mother, sir, has mistaken it for her Christmas gift. She said, 'It's lovely, dear...'" His voice trailed off and he slowly lowered the finger he'd raised to point at the attached text message.

"How did this happen?" Rage etched on his face, Mycroft's breaths came ragged and intentional.

"The company doesn't seem to know. They sent over the requisition. All of your specifications are clearly detailed." Timothy took his own calming breath. "I double checked. The matching tea service for your mother, and the hunting jacket and boots for your father, are still scheduled to be delivered to their home prior to your arrival on Christmas Eve."

"Well, that is good news, isn't it?" There was something lethal in Mycroft's unexpectedly cheerful tone. His disingenuous smile seemed almost painful.

"Is it?" Timothy grimaced even as he asked the question.

"No!" He shouted. Thinking better of throwing the tablet across the room, Mycroft shoved it into Timothy's hands and turned to pour himself a sloppy measure of expensive brandy. He tossed it back and poured another. "I can't. I can't do it. I won't."

"Sir?" Brows furrowed in concern, Timothy took a cautious step forward.

Grabbing Timothy's lapel in a tight fisted hold, he dragged the young man close. "The gifts. My parents will... _appreciate_ them. They will attempt to show me appreciation."

"It is what families do at Christmas, sir." Timothy nodded.

"No!" Mycroft finished his drink, released Timothy's lapel and ran his hand through his hair. "I won't be subject to their affections and sentiment." He turned quickly to his computer. "I need a disaster. An uprising or epidemic. A good old fashioned war! Anything! Timothy, get me..."

"Sir?"

"What? Why aren't you," Mycroft motioned urgently toward the door.

"Mr. Holmes, sir, why not just, uhm, take a holiday?" Timothy mumbled.

"I- I'm sorry? What did you just say?" Incredulous, Mycroft stood once more to face him.

"A holiday, sir. Leave town? I heard you never..."

"Never. I never take a holiday. Not in an official capacity. How could I possibly..." Mycroft looked nearly desperate.

"You wouldn't have to leave the country even. Just London. Don't tell anyone where you're going."

"I could work remotely." Nodding, Mycroft sat slowly in his chair. "No distractions. Peace and quiet."

"And no family to shower you with love and appreciation," Timothy huffed an uncertain laugh.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, but nodded again. He paused to consider his options. "Christmas is... soon."

"Three days, sir."

"Three?" Mycroft seemed startled at the revelation. "Where could I possibly..."

"My cousin Iris told me about this website... May I?" He stepped nearer, and Mycroft relenquished control of the desk. "You basically trade homes with someone else for a designated amount of time."

"Homes? As in, my personal house? I..."

"It's very secure, sir. You supply a description of your home in your profile, and then you search for another home that meets your needs and time frame. Simple."

"Simple," Mycroft mumbled, slowly coming back to himself. "This is a rather rash idea. A very poor plan indeed. Timothy, I'm sorry, I think it would be best if you clear your desk. You'll be compensated well for your discretion in never speaking of this matter, and I'll personally see to your next assignment..."

"Oh, look! A cottage in Sussex is listed. This bloke seems desperate too. Willing to trade off any time. Could be ready tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mycroft shoved Timothy out of the way and intently studied the profile. "Do it. I'm going to do it."

"Yeah?" Timothy grinned.

"Yes," Mycroft replied firmly. "Clear my schedule for the next week."

"Just a week, sir?" Timothy started for the door.

"Yes, a week should be sufficient time for my mother's enthusiasm to fade. Wait, Timothy..." The young man turned back to face him with wide eyes. "How do I contact this..." Mycroft squinted at the screen, "Doctor John H. Watson?"


	2. I've Just Noticed How Pathetic You Are

"Oohh, Johnny, just look at your face." Harry Watson was drunk. No. Drunk was putting it mildly. Fortunately for her, the state of inebriation in which she found herself was one she was well practiced in, and she had learned to manage her bodily faculties quite expertly. Unfortunately for her brother, Harry became a soppy, affectionate mess the more she drank, and as was the case in most instances, he was on the receiving end.

Seated on a bar stool with his back to the bar, propping his elbows on the ledge for balance, John Watson grudgingly submitted himself to his sister's sloppy attention. They were celebrating him after all, so he could hardly fault her. She pressed a hand to either side of his face, pulled his head to her, and plopped a boozy wet kiss on his forehead. Yeah. He could fault her maybe a bit. "Harry, I think you've had enough..."

"Just look at you," she ignored the fact that he'd even spoken, and squeezed his face, smushing his cheeks, "so handsome." She cooed at him as if he were a toddler. "Baby brother, you always make me so proud."

"Not what you said when I joined up. I believe you called me a coward for leaving you here with mum."

Harry scoffed at the very thought, and John winced at the heavy scent of alcohol on her breath. "Well I made _one_ mistake."

"One?" The bartender huffed. John glanced back at her - no small feat since Harry still had her hands pressed to his face - and rolled his eyes.

"But now!" Harry squeaked, "now you're a war hero, and... and a famous author. Award winning!" She shouted that last bit, and a small group of locals nearby cheered. "And you're gonna be my ticket out of this god forsaken town." She leaned in to kiss him on the mouth, but John ducked and shoved her hands away.

"Enough!" John hissed through clenched teeth. He stood up and leaned closer to her. "Harry, I got shot. All of those things happened because I got shot. You said you hated me when I left. You avoided me when I came back broken. And now you want to come around? _Now?_ If anyone's getting out, it's me. Fix things with Clara, and maybe she'll take you away from here." He kept his voice low, but a few people still cast curious glances their way.

"Johnny..." Voice cracking, Harry flexed her hands into loose fists. She looked decimated, blinking back tears. "Joh- Uhm, you know..."

"Here you two," the bartender slid two drinks across the bar, a pint to John and a cocktail to Harry. She kept her voice low. "You're gaining an audience, and this is a party. You can talk later, yeah?"

Harry glared then snatched her drink with a sniffle and pushed past John, patting his cheek a bit too forcefully as she walked away.

"Damn it," John scrubbed his hand down his face, slid back up onto his stool and turned to face the bar. He crossed his arms on the flat surface and buried his face in his elbow.

"If it's any consolation, there's no alcohol in that cocktail."

John squinted up at the bartender. "What?"

"No alcohol. Seltzer. Cranberry juice. A lime wedge and a cherry on a fancy toothpick," she cocked an eyebrow and grinned deviously. "I call it the 'Harry's Too Pissed to Know Any Different.'"

John studied her face for a moment - damn she was gorgeous, with minimal make-up, but heavy on the eyeliner, and her dark hair pulled into a messy bun - and snorted. He sat up and shook his head. "God I love you." She slid his pint to him and he took a sip. "Why didn't it work out between us, Alice?"

"We're both angry and broken, and running from our pasts." She shrugged and her smile turned wistful.

"Too much alike." Despite a heavy sigh, John's mouth quirked into the endearing, lopsided grin that had first weakened her defences.

"Damn we had fun though, didn't we?" Alice mussed his hair and tugged a bit at his collar.

"Oi!" With a laugh, John tossed a handful of peanuts at her."

"Bastard," she laughed. "Dammit, Watson, I should make you come back here and clean that up."

"Just wanna get me behind the counter. Probably take advantage of me," John winked rakishly at her, and despite herself she blushed.

"I hate you..." Alice snapped a wet towel at him. "Oh, bloody hell. Speaking of things that take advantage... Incoming." John frowned at the non sequitur, until he felt a familiar touch run across his shoulders and down his arm.

"Hello... Lover."

John flinched involuntarily. Judging by the way she leaned into him, the blonde mistook it for arousal.

"Mary," Nodding once, John took a long pull from his pint. Alice had a scotch waiting for him when he finished. He smiled gratefully.

"Cutthroat bitch." Alice refused to actually make eye contact with Mary, she simply continued wiping the counter. "Your usual? Children's tears and cyanide cocktail?" John sputtered and choked on his drink.

"You know, I always did enjoy coming here," with cool detachment, Mary examined her fingernails. "It's quaint. A simple pub for simple people." She took John's drink from him and set it down forcefully, sloshing the contents over the side of the tumbler. "I'll pass on the drink. What a _need_ is a few minutes alone..." Mary licked a drop of scotch from her finger, then traced it along John's tense jaw.

"I'm your client. You are my manager," with a weak sigh, John grabbed Mary's wrist and pulled her hand from his face. She pursed her lips into a pout and huffed. "That's it, Mary. Business only."

Mary's eyes went hard and she dismissed Alice with the wave of her free hand. "Fine." She nodded in the direction of a few people in expensive business attire, looking very out of place. "They're prepared to offer you an advance for another manuscript."

"What? Really?" The tension fell from John's face and he released Mary's wrist. He huffed a laugh and didn't seem to notice when Mary slipped her hand back into his. She gently squeezed his fingers. "Why? Oh god, what would I even... Shit. How much?" He laughed in earnest and grinned at her.

"It's _significant._ " She showed him the number she'd demanded she have in writing. "Breathe, love." Rubbing her hand gently up and down John's arm, she cast a deadly look at Alice.

"That's a big number," John breathed.

"You deserve it. You and I know it, and now, so do they."

"But, I'm not an author, not really..." John's breathing grew erratic once more.

"Says the man whose book became required reading for every twelve year old in the nation almost over night. John, you're brilliant." Mary's smile seemed genuine.

Something dark clouded John's eyes. "What do they want me to write?"

"Ah, that's the catch."

"I won't do a sequel."

"It's what everyone wants, John. Your fans, the schools, the people writing the checks..." Mary stepped closer to John and her hand wandered up his shoulder and to his neck.

"That was a true story, Mary. It was part of my story, something I saw at war. I only wrote it to try to sort out my demons. You're the one who-"

"Yes. I saw something special there."

"Apparently not special enough to be read by actual adults," John finished his drink and tipped his glass toward Alice.

"Young adult literature is where everyone wants to be right now, John. Trust me."

"I don't." Suddenly realizing Mary was teasing the hair at his nape, John twisted away from her. "Stop that," he mumbled. The look in his eyes told Mary she'd nearly broken his resolve, and her smile was smug.

"I had to change too much. It's all wrong." John hung his head.

"It's a work of fiction now, and a damn good one. A sequel makes sense with the narrative."

"But there isn't a sequel. I never saw that girl again." Defeated, John slumped against the bar.

"Perfect! You can make the story anything you want it to be! That's what authors do." Mary reached out and fidgeted with the button just below John's collar. "You can inspire a generation. Do it for them." She looked into his eyes, her own burning with intensity. "Do it for me?"

"I..." John swallowed hard. "I need to think about it."

"They want to know before the end of the year."

"That's soon," shifting in his seat, John watched Mary's fingers on his button. "Not much time."

"I can help you decide. Spend Christmas with me." Another step closer and Mary could whisper against his ear.

John closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He started when Alice cleared her throat. "Wilkes," he managed.

"Sebastian is going back to London tomorrow. I'm stuck here until Boxing Day. We could hide away at my place..."

"No." John shook his head as if to clear it.

"Fine. Your place. The cottage is... nice. We'll make it work." Mary undid the top button of John's shirt.

"God dammit, Mary. No!" He wrenched her hand away and fixed his shirt. "You're still with that tosser. _You_ left _me_ for him. We won't be spending any time not related to work together. Not now, not ever."

Mary hummed in contemplation, and John hated the way she was looking at him. She seemed almost intrigued, possibly aroused, by his assertiveness. She cocked an eyebrow at him and licked her lips. She didn't say a word.

"I'll call you. Next week," John nearly growled.

"You do that." Clearly mocking him with her sing-song tone, she squeezed his bicep, giggled and started to walk away. "Time for speeches."

John released a deep breath. "Damn. That was... close. Too close. Thank you..."

Alice smiled and stretched across the bar to kiss his cheek. "Maybe we couldn't make it work, but you're still my best friend." She poured them both a cup of coffee. "You could fire her, you know. She only stays around because you pay her. It's very unhealthy."

"I can't afford anyone else," John shrugged.

"I call bullshit on that," Alice slammed her cup down. "You take that ridiculous advance for the manuscript, and you hire someone who you can keep it in your pants around for five minutes."

"Fuck you." John snorted.

"No thanks," Alice winked, and they both giggled. "Seriously though. Cut her loose. When the money's gone, she will be too."

"Those advances come with pretty strict contracts," John frowned.

"Wouldn't paying a fee for breaking contract be worth getting rid of..."

"Cutthroat bitch, wasn't it?" John laughed.

"Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"Excuse me?" One of the men in a suit stepped up to the karaoke microphone and introduced himself as the CEO of the publishing house. "We just wanted to thank you all for coming out and celebrating with us this evening. Before we do our presentation, there's someone else I want to introduce. Many of you may know her... Mary? Where's Mary?"

Waving to the weak applause of the crowd, Mary played humble very believably.

"Mary Morstan, everyone!" The CEO held out his hand to help her onto the low stage. John and Alice both snorted. "Now, Mary here is the one who discovered John." There were cheers at the mention of his name. "And he's who we're here to celebrate, but it seems Mary has some news of her own, don't you?"

Mary rolled her eyes and pretended to be flustered. "It's true," she giggled. Alice made a gagging noise. Mary motioned to someone, and Sebastian Wilkes stood awkwardly from his seat and reluctantly joined her on the stage.

"No," John choked on the word as the color drained from his face. Alice pulled herself up and over the bar so he could lean against her, uttering vulgarities all the while.

"Two days ago, my Sebastian asked me to marry him!" She flashed a ring John was certain she hadn't been wearing before.

" _And,_ I think it's okay," Sebastian kissed Mary's forehead, "we are among friends, right?" Mary smiled up at him and nodded, then winked at John. "It'll be a spring wedding because... We're expecting! Mary's three months along now!" There was cheering from the group of executives, and confused clapping from the locals as they cast concerned glances back to the bar.

For his part, the room seemed to list dangerously, and the world seemed to drop out from under John.

"Watson. John?" Alice hissed in his ear. "Three months, weren't you..."

"We were so careful. I didn't want kids. Neither did she. We took every precaution..." John struggled to keep breathing.

"Damn her. She was cheating on you, John. You have to end this." Alice stood in front of John and forced him to look at her.

"She... Mary cheated on me?" John blinked rapidly.

"I never realized you were this clueless."

"Really? Because I'm very aware right at the moment," John sniffed.

"God, and pathetic," Alice's smile was soft, but there was concern in her eyes.

John grunted in agreement. The CEO chose that moment to announce officially that John had been chosen as recipient of the Branford Boase Award for outstanding first time author of a young adult novel. John tried to stand, but his knees gave out. Alice wrapped her arm around him for support.

"A bit too much celebrating," Alice joked, and the cheering crowd of locals laughed and whistled. Together they managed to get John to the stage. "You've got this," she whispered to him, then pulled him into an impressive, lingering kiss that left them both a bit breathless. Alice winked at Mary, who barely concealed her rage, pumped her fist in the air, and made her way back to the bar amidst high fives and more cheers.

Stunned, John stumbled his way onto the stage.

"Lucky bastard!" Someone shouted from the back.

John recovered himself enough to play along. He flashed a two finger salute, to the horror of the executives seated in front of him, and the delight of his neighbors and friends.

"So I guess I'm supposed to say something..." By sheer force of will, John managed to be both charming and humorous as he thanked everyone he could think of. He cut it short when Alice made a slashing movement across her neck. And ten minutes later he had absolutely no recollection of what he'd actually said.

He picked his way through the crowd of people trying to congratulate him as quickly as possible, and the moment he saw an opening John grabbed his coat and made a move for the door. Alice stopped him.

"I can't stay. You know I can't. I can't see her..." John tugged his coat on.

"Straight home, you hear me?" With a threat in her voice, Alice hugged him. "I'll come as soon as I can."

"No, you don't have to. I'll be fine. I just need..." He groaned against her shoulder. "I have to get out of here. Away from... everything."

"I know," Alice stepped back. "Call me?"

John nodded, kissed her on the cheek, and hurried out into the cold, windy night. He trudged through the snow and slush, needing the chill to shock his system out of the foggy stupor he was in.

Twenty minutes later, as he unlocked his front door, John knew a few things for certain. He was a god damn doctor, for one, and he knew very well the unlikelihood that Mary's baby was his own. Secondly, that confirmed Mary's unfaithfulness. And third, Alice was right. Mary had to go, in every capacity. Which meant he _had_ to write another book.

"What the hell do I write about?" He asked the kettle as he turned the stove on. "Nothing ever happens to me." The silence of the cottage was shattered by the shrill ping of a message alert on his laptop. He pulled the message up and laughed in surprise. Some posh bloke - what sort of name was Mycroft Holmes - was interested in exchanging houses with him. John almost forgot he'd set up the profile. It had been months ago.

 _JOHN: You're really interested in Sussex in the winter? It's bloody frigid out here._

 _MYCROFT: Very interested. Your profile states you can be ready with short notice._

 _JOHN: How short are you talking?_

 _MYCROFT: Is tomorrow too soon?_

"Fuck." John glanced around, and stood to pour hot water into his mug. He kept a meticulously tidy home. He only needed to add a few things to his already packed go bag.

 _JOHN: Where are you?_

 _MYCROFT: My apologies. Central London. I live alone in a three storey townhouse. There is staff in and out, but they will be directed to stay out of your way unless instructed otherwise._

 _JOHN: Staff? Bloody hell. I don't have any of that._

 _MYCROFT: Excellent. Should I send a car for you?_

 _JOHN: A car?_

 _MYCROFT: To drive you._

 _JOHN: I'll take a train. Thank you, though._

 _MYCROFT: Send me the time and station, and my driver will pick you up. Am I to understand tomorrow is amenable to you._

 _JOHN: Yes. God, yes. It's perfect._


End file.
